


letters of smoke among the stars of the south

by jvrt



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvrt/pseuds/jvrt
Summary: how you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Marius and Cosette have given them the spare room in the cabin they’re staying in over winter. It’s a large room, though sparsely decorated; there’s a bed, a dressing table and a chaise longue as well as a wardrobe.

They hadn’t known Javert was coming. Valjean hardly knew until two days before, when he told Javert about the invitation he had received and said “you should come,” without thinking it through. Javert had hesitated at first; he and Marius had never gotten along, and he found it difficult to talk to Cosette without feeling shame considering what had happened with her mother. Still, Valjean’s kind eyes and gentle insistence over dinner wore him down. He had the weekend off work anyway, and the prospect of spending time alone in Valjean’s home made him feel antsy in a way he didn’t want to think about.

Now, Valjean sits their cases down, and smiles as he turns back to Javert. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” He says, motioning to the window where a frozen pond can be seen, bare and frosty tree branches overhanging it.

Javert is about to reply when Cosette walks in and hugs her father.

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” she says when she turns to Javert. “We did not know you were coming, and we are unprepared for you to stay. Not that you are unwelcome, of course,” she hurriedly adds, still holding her father’s hand, “but it means there is only this chaise for you to sleep on. there is an inn a few miles away but-”

“It is fine,” Javert says, then clears his throat. “I mean to say, I appreciate your hospitality. The chaise will be more than suitable.”

Cosette smiles and there’s a moment where they silently watch one another. Then she nods, the moment is broken, and she pulls on her father’s hand, dragging him into the kitchen where lunch is being prepared.

 

 

It has been a year and a half since Javert’s tumble into the Seine, since Valjean pulled his body out of the water and spread warmth into his broken bones. A year since he was finally well enough to return to work, since he had a reason to leave Valjean’s home.

He hadn’t left; his landlady had already rented his rooms to another occupant and he had no desire to live elsewhere when Valjean’s house was big enough for the two of them, too empty after Cosette had gotten married.

In that time, they had forged a friendship that came as a shock to them both. Somewhere between Valjean’s insistence that Javert was worthy of life and Javert’s stubborn black and white morality, they reached a point of mutual understanding and respect.

Javert had returned to his police work. If he was less strict and more understanding when faced with smaller, non-violent crimes, nobody needed to know. He walks the streets with a cane both as fashion and as a walking aid now.

Valjean took to gardening in his free time, his savings were enough to let him live comfortably for the rest of his days. Still, he took gardening jobs for the people of Paris, and continued to hand alms to the poor at night.

Javert would accompany him on some of these occasions, though he would never admit it was to keep an eye on Valjean. His patrols simply coincided with the routes Valjean tended to follow, that was all.

Many of the homeless and lost of the city would talk in whispers about the generous gentleman and the police inspector who would bicker as food and clothing were handed out.

 

 

Valjean still worries, still tenses when Javert coughs or sneezes. This is why he’s lying awake, eyes on Javert as he shivers even under the thick blankets covering him.

The chaise is beside the window, and Valjean can see the frost patterns forming on the glass despite the fireplace providing the room with a low heat.

It is the fourth time Javert’s whole body shakes and he turns onto his other side that Valjean says “come to bed.”

Javert stops moving, shuffles up in the chaise so he can look at Valjean. “What?”

“Come to bed. Simply looking at you is making me cold.”

“Then don’t look at me,” Javert replies and makes to lie down again.

“You know what I mean,” Valjean says. “The bed is warmer and further from the window. There must be a draft coming in.”

“I won’t have you sleeping here so I can have the bed. I’m perfectly-”

“The bed is more than big enough for the both of us,” Valjean replies, and lifts a corner of his covers. “Now come before all the heat escapes.”

Javert stares at him a moment longer, then slowly stands up and walks to the bed, grumbling all the while.

Valjean hears the words “ridiculous” and “self-sacrificing” but chooses to ignore them in favour of moving over slightly so Javert fits onto the mattress.

When Javert is finally settled, Valjean shivers slightly and moves closer. “You’re frozen solid,” he says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You worry too much,” Javert says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve lived through worse.”

Valjean goes quiet for a moment. “I wish you hadn’t,” he says, and he realises he can feel Javert’s breath on his face. They’re sharing the same pillow.

Javert seems to notice this too, and turns onto his other side. Valjean lies awake for what feels like hours before he finally drifts to sleep.

 

 

The next night, they are both changed into bedclothes and Javert picks up the folded blankets on top of the chaise when Valjean takes hold of his wrist and gently pulls him towards the bed. Javert looks as though he’s about to refuse, say something like _it isn’t that cold tonight, i’ll be fine_ , but he closes his mouth and follows silently when he looks at Valjean.

They lie facing each other, not quite as close as they had been the night before.

Valjean’s nightshirt lies slightly open at the collar. It exposes more of his chest than he would usually be comfortable with, but Javert has seen it all before. Javert knows him better than anyone else in the world. It used to unsettle him, but he takes a deep comfort in it now. For all their arguments, all their disagreements, Javert has somehow found a way to justify allowing Valjean his freedom.

Javert reaches out, traces the dark tattoo on Valjean’s chest. It’s faded, looks more green in some places than it should, but it’s still clearly visible, no layers to hide it in the light of the soft glow from the fireplace.

Valjean closes his eyes, feels Javert’s index finger follow the shape of the 2, the 4, the loop of the 6, and then he reaches out and holds Javert’s wrist still. A silent plea.

Javert stops. His hand stills and he curls his fingers into a loose fist. He wants to say _sorry,_ say _I didn’t know,_ but he can’t lie. He knows why those numbers are on Jean’s skin, he saw them every day for more than a decade, under the blazing sun and the freezing rain.

“Did it hurt?” he asks, and his hand twitches like he wants to touch again.

Valjean’s eyes open, his eyebrows furrow slightly. “The shame was worse,” he says, and smiles bitterly. “And the hopelessness.”

Javert feels Valjean’s grip on his wrist loosen. He’s looking at the scars on Valjean’s neck, around his collarbone. He can feel the heavy weight of the rope around his own neck, his imprisonment during the night of the failed revolution. It is nothing compared to what Jean has experienced.

Instead of touching, reaching his fingers out and making Valjean relive the years of shackles, he turns his palm and catches Valjean’s fingers in his own. Tangles them together, careful not to hold too tight.

Valjean takes a breath - it’s not a gasp, he isn’t shocked. But he tightens the grip, pulls both their hands close to his chest. Javert can feel Valjean’s heart beating, can almost hear it if he focuses hard enough.

“You didn’t deserve it,” Javert says, and his voice sounds rough even to his own ears.

“I broke the law,” Valjean replies, and the gentle smile on his lips is enough that Javert doesn’t argue.

He closes his eyes and lets Jean’s heartbeat lull him to sleep.

 

 

They return home the next day. Javert resumes his work that night, and Valjean stays up far too late staring at his empty chair in the living room. 

When he goes to sleep, he isn’t listening for the sound the door opening. He really isn’t.

He wakes up to a clattering noise coming from the other side of the house. Startled, he hurries out of bed and into the kitchen, where there is a dark figure rummaging in a cupboard.

Valjean’s assessing the best weaponry within reach when the figure turns around and comes close enough that his face can be made out.

“It’s you,” Valjean says.

“Of course it’s me,” Javert replies. “Who else would it be? I’ve told you to stop leaving the door unlocked, just because you believe in seeing the good in everyone doesn’t mean-”

“You’re back early.” Valjean cuts him off, frowning and stepping closer.

“There was an- incident,” Javert says, looking away.

Javert isn’t one to stutter or misspeak. Valjean blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and he sees the dark bruise around Javert’s right eye.

“What happened?” he asks, reaching out to touch.

Javert moves away from the hand. “A robbery. The thief punched me and tried to escape.”

“Tried? You caught him?"

“Of course,” Javert says, and the pride in his voice makes Valjean flinch. True, he himself hadn’t been violent when he had been caught, and assaulting a police inspector - assaulting _Javert_ \- deserved punishment, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he could have done something to stop the crime before it ever happened.

“He wasn’t a good man,” Javert says, turning to face Valjean again. “He frequented the… darker areas of the city. Visited a whore who did not satisfy, and took her earnings from her as some kind of punishment.”

“And what became of the woman?” Valjean asks, a chill in his bones as he remembers the night with Fantine.

“Her money was returned to her and her statement, combined with my own, will be enough to bring her assailant to justice.”

“She wasn’t arrested?”

“Nobody could prove she had done anything wrong.”

Valjean smiles, laughs softly. Javert quirks his head at that, and when Valjean looks at him again he sees the black eye and grimaces.

“You’ll need clove oil,” he says as he gets some matches and lights a candle. The bruise is still light, but will become much darker tomorrow. It spreads from Javert’s eyebrow to cheekbone, and there is a cut on his brow that looks like it must have come from a ring.

“What do you think I was looking for?” Javert asks, sighing and watching as Valjean rummages in a cupboard. “I tried not to wake you.”

Valjean finds a small bottle and a handkerchief. “It’s too late for that now,” he says, smiling to himself. “Sit.”

Javert pulls out a chair with only a minimal amount of fuss. “I can do it myself, honestly Valjean, it’s as though-” he cuts himself off with a sharp hiss as the clove oil comes into contact with the wound.

“It’s as though you’re in pain and I’m helping mend it,” Valjean says, studying the bruise in the low candlelight.

Javert realises their faces are very close together, Valjean just above him, and the stinging above his eye fades as his face reddens slightly.

Valjean crouches even lower to inspect the damage from another angle, and Javert takes a sharp breath of air.

“Did I hurt you?” Valjean asks, frowning and backing off slightly, and before Javert can think about what he’s doing, he leans forward and presses their lips together.

Valjean is very, very still for a moment and Javert has enough time to think _I’ve ruined it all_ before he’s kissing back and gently lifting his hand to tangle his fingers in Javert’s hair.

The clove oil and handkerchief lie forgotten on the table as Valjean breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together with more tenderness than anyone should be capable of. “Javert, I,” he says, eyes closed and breathless like he can’t find the words. His hand tightens in Javert’s hair.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure about this,” Javert replies before he captures Valjean’s lips again.

A bell chimes somewhere halfway across town and Valjean forces himself to take a step back.

In the flickering candlelight, Valjean’s face is hard to read. He stands still, worrying his hands together too far away for Javert to reach him.

“Come to bed,” Javert says, standing up. He hesitates, a feeling in his gut that might be courage or fear. Swallowing, he picks up the candle and offers his free hand.

Valjean takes it.

They walk slowly, Javert leading the way, and he bites down the urge to turn and study Valjean’s face.

When they reach the bedroom, Javert places the candle on the nightstand and is struck by the realisation that he’s still wearing his uniform.

He hesitates for a moment, hands over the buttons of his jacket, when he sees Valjean is watching him. He resists the urge to shudder, to flinch away, and instead unbuttons his uniform in the same way he always does, forcing himself not to speed up out of nervousness. He folds the clothing and sits it atop a chair, and turns to find Valjean is holding night clothes out to him.

Javert can’t see well in the low light, but he furrows his eyebrows as he thinks he sees a rise of colour in Valjean’s cheeks.

He dresses quickly, starting to shiver, and shakes his head when Jean asks if he should light a fire. He eventually finishes dressing and frowns slightly when he realises Valjean is still standing in front of him.

“When I said come to bed, I-” He’s cut off as Valjean steps closer, puts a hand on Javert’s shoulder and leans in to kiss him.

Javert leans into the kiss, taking a moment to revel in the softness of Valjean’s lips, the tentative motions his hand makes as it rises to run through Javert’s hair.

Like this, with his eyes closed, he can hear the pounding of his own heart, feel the slight sting above his eye as he frowns when Valjean pulls away slightly. When Javert steps closer to chase him, Jean lets out a small sound that falls somewhere between a hum and a moan.

It should feel strange, Javert thinks, as Valjean’s tongue touches his lips. To be so close to someone, to be so close to _Jean Valjean_ and not feel the urge to take charge, to have control over the situation. He lets himself be pushed towards the bed, lets Valjean’s lips and hands and gentle murmurs guide him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world 

Valjean pulls away, presses a kiss to Javert’s throat, and Javert realises the bed is pressing against the back of his legs. He pauses for a moment before he sits on the bed. Valjean is bathed in soft moonlight, his white hair and beard glimmering in the dark. Javert feels at once condemned and reborn.

He swallows, doesn’t know what the next step is. As he opens his mouth to ask, Valjean answers by settling himself in Javert’s lap, knees at Javert’s hips and hands on his shoulders.

“It seemed like the thing to do,” Valjean says in response to Javert’s confused look. Javert nods in return, swallows slightly, and places his hands on Valjean’s hips.

Valjean bites his lip as he shuffles closer, seating himself properly atop Javert. Their bodies are in contact what feels like everywhere, and Javert’s grip on Valjean tightens.

Valjean is still biting his lip, so Javert kisses him. He teases his tongue between Valjean’s teeth, licks into his mouth, and -- oh. Valjean’s hips buck, a movement he doesn’t seem to be aware of, and Javert shivers as he guides Valjean’s hips to make it happen again. 

Even through their night clothes, the feel of their cocks touching is unlike anything Javert has experienced before, and he has to break the kiss to gasp softly as Valjean moves again and again.

Valjean moves a hand into Javert’s hair, gently runs his fingers through it as he grinds down, and Javert makes a sound which is very close to a whimper. So Valjean does it again.

Javert’s hands tighten, pushing Valjean down more, changing the angle slightly. It makes all the difference in the world as Valjean says “Javert,” in a way he has never heard his name said before.

Valjean’s rutting against him now, cocks sliding against each other through layers of clothing. Javert pulls on Valjean’s nightshirt, bunches it up as he places a hand on Valjean’s bare hip, and Valjean makes a desperate keening sound in the back of his throat. 

With Valjean’s nightshirt moved out of the way, every movement is enhanced tenfold, and Javert wonders how he has gone so long without this. He moves his hips up, matching each of Valjean’s thrusts, and glances down to watch as Valjean’s cock ruts against his own, his nightshirt between them.

He glances at Valjean’s face, eyes closed and mouth open, then licks his lips and moves a hand to wrap around Valjean’s cock.

Valjean _whines_ , hips stuttering before moving faster, fucking between Javert's hand and his cock, and Javert has never heard a more beautiful sound.

Javert rubs his thumb over the head of Valjean’s cock, watching his face as he furrows his brow and gasps, so he does it again.

Valjean’s mouth moves as though he is about to speak, but no words come out. Javert, confused, slows his hips and lets go of Valjean’s cock but Valjean shakes his head and simply speeds his own movement up, hand tightening in Javert’s hair. He grinds down hard, cock dragging the soft cotton of the nightshirt against Javert. “Please,” he says, so Javert wraps his hand around Valjean’s cock again, thumb brushing the head and becoming covered in pre come every time Valjean moves.

Valjean’s hand moves to grasp Javert’s wrist, and Javert watches as Valjean raises Javert’s hand to his mouth and wraps his lips around Javert’s thumb.

Valjean closes his eyes, tasting himself, and Javert can only moan in response as Valjean’s hips buck harshly, one, twice more, and then Valjean gasps, moves both hands to Javert’s shoulders and holds him tightly, grinding down hard as he comes.

Javert knows this man will be his undoing, knows he already was, as his hands move back to Valjean’s hips and hold him through his climax. He watches as Valjean slows to a stop, listens to his harsh panting breaths, and as he licks his lips Valjean kisses him again.

Javert shudders and makes a high pitched sound he supposes he should be ashamed of as Valjean grinds down against him again. Valjean bites Javert’s bottom lip, gentle but just the right side of painful, and Javert’s fingers hold tight to Valjean’s hips as his own orgasm floods over him.

Valjean doesn’t stop moving until Javert is gasping breathlessly. When Javert opens his eyes again, Valjean is still bathed in moonlight. He is still glowing, ethereal, and Javert finds he wants to give this man everything he has.

Valjean’s face reddens, desire and heat giving way to shame and uncertainty. Javert frowns and lifts a hand to Valjean’s face, gently pulling him closer to kiss him. Javert is still new at this, still unsure of how to proceed, but Valjean must be too, as he fumbles along with Javert’s desperate attempts to pour as much emotion into the kiss as possible.

When they pull apart, Valjean smiles and glances down at his chest, where Javert’s free hand has come to rest against his heart.

Javert can feel his face redden, as though somehow Valjean can feel the intensity of his emotion through the touch, and Valjean simply softens his smile and kisses him again.

This time, when Valjean pulls away, he stands up and moves across the room. Javert swallows down his anxiety as he realises Valjean is getting them both new nightshirts. He stands, realising his own is sticky and stained, and he wonders if it’s even possible to clean them thoroughly enough. He wonders if he’ll remember this night every time he puts the nightshirt on.

He is snapped out of his thoughts by Valjean, already dressed in a clean shirt, saying his name. He looks up to see clothes being held out to him, and he takes them and undresses quickly. When he slips the new nightshirt on, Valjean is still looking at him. He looks away as though caught, and moves to the bed. 

Javert stands still as Valjean gets into bed. He watches Valjean pull the covers over himself, then lift the side closest to Javert.

“Javert,” he says. “Come to bed.”

Javert finds he couldn’t disobey that voice if he tried.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from Pablo Neruda's "Every Day You Play"


End file.
